


Down in the Valley Where the Green Grass Grows

by psychomachia



Category: Nursery Rhymes & Songs, Where Are You Going To My Pretty Maid? (Nursery Rhyme)
Genre: Ambiguity, Gen, Storytelling, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 01:44:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17132687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychomachia/pseuds/psychomachia
Summary: We all walk the road one day.





	Down in the Valley Where the Green Grass Grows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feroxargentea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feroxargentea/gifts).



We are told in our village from the time we are small that we must be careful on the road.

Some of us, the braver ones that gaze at our grandmothers with sharp eyes, ask why. “Why must we be careful, we ask? This is our home and it is safe. No one gets hurt here.”

“Because my precious ones,” our grandmothers say, kissing the tops of our heads, “you are pretty girls. And one day, you will be pretty maids. And the world is not kind to pretty maids.”

The shyer ones get scared, put their heads down, try to hide behind their mothers. “Listen,” their mothers snap. “This is important. You must pay attention.” And so they listen to their mothers and make sure to remember to never be out past dark. Never walk down the road by yourself. Always be prepared.

But we that are not afraid, we laugh at this advice and our grandmothers look at us with pity. “One day, you will learn,” they say.

“Maybe we will,” we say. Maybe we won't.

We get older. Our grandmothers tell us more stories of men and wolves and the differences between the two so we can tell them apart if we meet them. We hear stories of sleeping princesses and the terrible queens they become. One day, this might be you, if you're not careful.

We are pleased to hear this.

One day, we discover we have become pretty maids. None of us have fortunes to our names. No one here does. The ones in the grand red-roofed houses in the cities, they have fortunes and sometimes, a pretty maid goes off there.

Sometimes she comes home.

But we will not go to the city. This is our home and it is safe. We laugh and play and even the shy ones that used to hide behind their mothers' skirts grow brave in the fresh air. Our mothers call us in. Your father wants to talk to you, they say. Stop giggling and listen.

We still laugh, but quietly. Our father is old, bent over, and leans on a cane. But he tells us that since we are now grown, we must help out around the farm.

“We already do that,” we say. We feed the pigs in their stys and we rake the straw up in the barn and we clean the floors until we see them shine. We make tea for our grandmothers, who sit in their rocking chairs and think about when they were pretty maids. We cook with our mothers, who cluck their tongues at us and worry that we will never get married.

But all we say to him is, “We are good girls.” It is all he wants to know.

“Yes,” our father says, “you are good girls who do what your parents tell you. But now you are old enough to walk the road.”

We dance around in delight until our father tells us to be calm. “I am trusting you to do this,” he says. “Have you listened to your grandmother?”

“Yes.”

“Have you listened to your mother?”

“Yes.”

“Have you listened to me?”

“Yes.”

“Then you can walk the road.”

The first day we walk the road, we don't see anyone. This is not the road we are promised, and we are disappointed. There are no wolves. We milk the cows and return home.

“Did you see anyone on the road?” our mothers ask.

“No,” we say.

They nod and take the buckets from us.

The next day we walk the road, we see a rabbit, plump and brown, run across our path and we shriek in joy. There are still no wolves.

“Did you meet anyone on the road?” our mothers ask.

“Just a rabbit,” we say.

“Go see your grandmother,” they answer. “She wants to talk to you.”

Our grandmothers tell us another story, about a girl who went into the woods, but we don't remember how it ends. It doesn't really matter.

We walk the road on the third day. There is a man on the road. We watch him with curiosity.

“Where are you going to, my pretty maid?” he asks. He looks at our face and dress and smiles.

We don't like his face or his smile or the way his eyes never meet ours, but this is the road. We need to follow it to the end. “We're going milking, sir,” we tell him.

He is still smiling. “May I come with you, my pretty maid?” He laughs, like it's a joke.

“You're kindly welcome sir,” we tell him. He follows us, whistling. The birds that were hovering above in the sky scatter. We don't see any rabbits today.

Halfway down the road, we look back at him. His smile isn't big anymore, but a tight one. He fidgets with something in his pocket.

“What is your father, my pretty maid?” he asks. We want to tell him that our father is a king or a man who lives in a big red-roofed house because then he might be afraid of what he will do, but we are still walking the road and so we have to tell the truth.

“My father’s a farmer, sir,” we say.

He looks even more unhappy. “And what is your fortune, my pretty maid?” His eyes are tight like his mouth now. We don't think he's a good person. Not like us.

“My face is my fortune, sir,” we say. We are not the girls who went to the cities. We are the ones who stayed home, who knew they would never leave it because we loved our home too much. It's safe. No one gets hurt.

The man has something by his side now that we see shining in the light. It's long and silver and looks as keen as the knife our mothers use to pare apples for our pies. “Then I can’t marry you, my pretty maid,” he says. He raises it.

We smile. Now it is his turn to be surprised. “Nobody asked you, sir,” we say. Our mouth gets wider and our teeth gleam too, pointed and white and very very sharp. We are pretty maids after all.

And there are so many of us. All of us in a row smiling back at him.

He starts to run, but this is the road and we follow it to the end.

When we are finished, we take his fine clothing and the jewelry we find hidden in the lining. Some of the rings fit us. We leave the knife with him. We don't need it.

We milk the cows and walk back. We are late tonight and it is dark, but we are not afraid. We never learned how to be.

“Did you find anyone on the road?” our mothers ask.

“Yes,” we say and we hand them the jewelry and clothing. Our mothers put in a trunk, the same trunk they stored their prizes in and their mothers before them and the mother before that going back as far as we can all remember.

They kiss us on the cheek. “You are good girls,” they say. “Let your grandmother know how your day went.”

We go see our grandmothers and we tell them our story. They smile in longing memory and pat us on the head. We lay our heads down on their knees and drift off to sleep next to the fire. We are happy. We live in our home and everyone is safe.

No one gets hurt.

Not as long as we walk the road.


End file.
